


Hoping I Would Miss the Flight

by dedougal



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wants to hide until he sorts out the memories he can't remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoping I Would Miss the Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laraneia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laraneia/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my darling Laraneia! Every year I try to write a fic for your birthday. You were my first Teen Wolf fic and this is my first Avengers fic! They are never as good as I want them to be. This one is lacking porn (sorry) but is hopefully chockful of fluff.
> 
> Title from "Sunday New York Times" by Matt Nathanson, which I listened to a lot while writing.

There was a difference between his memories of himself and who he was now. It was disconcerting. It was possibly more than disconcerting, but Bucky had developed a coping strategy of ignoring uncomfortable feelings until they went away. He didn’t even need them to wipe his brain anymore to lock all the disquieting questions away. He was able to do it himself. Most of the time.

His ex-target and, according to the museum and articles he had read, ex-best friend, Steve Rogers appeared on entirely too many news bulletins, his face flashing up on screens all across the city. New York had seemed like a safe option – DC was too small, too many of the same people in the same places. New York was enormous with enough free rooms that shifting every few days was unremarkable, easy to hide and easier to shift between identities. But New York was also full of non-stop news – screens in the street, in bars and restaurants, in coffee shops. 

Bucky’d taken to sitting in Times Square. Behind him, he could feel the bulk of Stark Tower, although more and more people are just calling it the Avengers Tower these days, and he liked planning trajectories on tourists who stood in the middle of the street to take pictures, forcing people to deke around them, frowning and rushing off to wherever they were trying to go. The red steps were new, although he had vague memories that might have been his or might just have been the memory of seeing pictures at some point. They warred with his memories of the place from the past. The billboards had been static but the place still lit up at night, restaurants and theatres and bars. He could remember the smell during the summer, hot and steamy, girls’ perfume and grease and the prickle of sweat on his five o’clock shadow. He remembered it like he remembered the steps – as if he hadn’t lived it but as if he’d seen it on a screen.

Roger’s face – Steve’s face, Captain America’s face – appeared on the giant screen opposite him again, blonde hair mussed and a smear of soot across his cheek. His mouth was shaping around some platitudes about some threat he’d dismissed. Bucky could read his lips, could pay attention. But instead he focused on the blue of Steve’s eyes. That had never changed. 

Bucky rubbed at his temple as he remembered the kids they’d been, walking these streets, riding the subway. The entire place seemed overlaid with a delicate tracery of remembrance that was made more complex with every movie Bucky ended up sheltering in or ignoring as it stuttered by ruined by static on one of the broken TVs in the run down motels he ended up in. Every time he headed to the library to catch up, to try and patch the holes, the gaps, the frayed weave of his brain, he ended up more confused than before. Neither he nor Steve had memories of the years between their last meeting, no really, but he had thoughts that suggested he’d been more aware than he thought he had.

His arm ached where the metal dug into his flesh. It shouldn’t be painful. He should be accustomed to it. He tracked a pickpocket working across the square idly, planning how he’d stop a wallet or a watch being lifted, and grabbed his thigh with his free hand to stop itching at it.

“I’m sure I’ve got a friend who could come up with something to soothe that.” Bucky recognized the footsteps but chose not to move. “He’s got some smarts.”

“Is he the one who likes to wear a red suit or the one who turns green?” Bucky eased his fingers open but left his hand flat on his leg. He bit down on the urge to ease his coat open. He knew it would take five seconds to grab the gun he had hidden there but he also knew there was no reason to haul it out and start a firefight. Steve – and he was about eight three percent certain on this – was a threat to him, but not an immediate one.

“They’d probably work together. They like doing that.” Bucky slid his eyes sideways to see Steve suppressing a wince. He knew there was something there that he didn’t have any data on. But now he’d started watching Steve, he found he couldn’t stop. Steve was wearing dark-framed spectacles, although the glass seemed to be completely non-corrective. He had a worn Yankees cap hiding his sunshine yellow hair and a grey hoodie completing the non-descript look. Bucky grimaced at the cap before he could stop himself, another memories unfurling from wherever they'd been locked up. On the other hand, Steve looked relaxed in a way Bucky never saw on the screens or in the millions of images that surrounded Bucky every day. “You okay?”

“I’m…” Bucky rubbed at his thigh again, his hand sweaty suddenly. He hadn’t showered in a couple of days and he felt suddenly grubby under Steve’s even, kind gaze. His hair hung around his shoulders and he could almost smell his rank stale sweat. His clothes were in need of a wash, or replacement. “I’m okay.”

“Want to grab a bite?” Steve was still watching the crowds and a frown passed across his deliberately bland face. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Bucky watched as Steve jogged down the steps and across the street, weaving around people like they weren’t obstacles. His hand landed on the shoulder of the sneak thief from earlier, who looked up into Steve’s face before glancing up at the over-bright, huge screen, showing Steve in his more familiar guise again. Bucky watched the thief swallow, hard, and nod. Steve eased up on his grip and slapped the guy on his back. The guy tipped forward, off balance, but grinned. Bucky walked down the steps.

“I don’t know I’m fit company, Cap… Steve.” Bucky shrugged.

Steve looked him over. There was a weariness in his eyes that dimmed the blue in ways Bucky could only remember the very beginning of from back in the day. “Take out. How do you feel about schwarma?”

A wave of memories: a different type of hot street, buildings old and crumbling, ancient spires, spiced wind, an impenetrable language and a target who was probably innocent swept over him. Bucky felt faintly sick. “Burgers would be better.”

Steve’s hand came up to rest on his shoulder, comfortable, confident and easy. He steered Bucky though the crowd, through the tourists gaping at that many lights, that many people. The noise seemed to diminish, the shouts and constant honks of taxi sliding away. New York was almost peaceful.


End file.
